


020 "red dress/Joe"

by wheel_pen



Series: Iron Man AU [20]
Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fish out of Water, My Pepper is different, Pre-Iron Man, alternative universe, dark themes, rape/non-con fear, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 22:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony discusses the two worst things he's ever done. First, seeing a torn dress of Pepper's brings back some disturbing, fragmented memories from a drunken evening out. Second, Rae attempts to set Pepper up with a friend named Joe and Tony crushes the relationship before it can even begin. "You want to know why I won't let you go. I want to know why you don't tell me to f—k off and walk out that door." Please note that this story contains dark themes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	020 "red dress/Joe"

**Author's Note:**

> 1) My Pepper is very different from canon Pepper. Her personality/origin is very different; to separate her from canon Pepper I've given her a new last name and a different hair color.
> 
> 2) The bad words are censored. That's just how I do things.
> 
> 3) Stories are numbered in the order I wrote them, which isn't necessarily the order in which they occur. At some point I'll post a timeline.
> 
> I wrote this series after the first Iron Man movie came out. It's very AU but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play with these characters.
> 
> **Please note that this story contains dark themes.

            It was possible, despite everything you had read, that you still thought I was a good person deep down. I wasn't really convinced I was, personally. Actually, I didn't understand where this 'deep down' was supposed to be, what this 'at heart' constituted. I did good things sometimes. I did bad things sometimes. Some of the bad things, I felt bad about later. Some of them I didn't. Some of them I would have done anything to erase from my history. Some of them I would always have done again, even though I knew they were bad and I felt horrible for doing them. I tried to be honest here so you could judge for yourself; but I had lied to myself so much in the past, I wouldn't necessarily trust everything you read here.

            Perhaps I should have mentioned this earlier.

            Anyway, now I'm going to tell you about the two worst things I've ever done (which didn't involve killing someone or otherwise aiding terrorists—not to negate my responsibility for those things, but they really belonged to a different category). I did them both to Pepper, who is the person I love most in this world. Again, not to discount the total amount of human suffering caused by all the Stark Industries weapons—it wasn't like I didn't know what the weapons _did_ , even if I didn't necessarily know who was _using_ them to do it. When I listed the sins I had to atone for, all that suffering of humans on the other side of the world was definitely ranked high.

            But other things I had done couldn't be countered by building a robotic flight suit and blowing up illegal caches of missiles.

            I'll start with the one I would have done anything to erase.

            I oozed out of bed and through the shower one morning, then slithered down the stairs leaving a trail of slime behind, at least metaphorically. I could barely summon the strength to crawl into a chair at the counter and, once there, I collapsed across the surface, head throbbing, stomach churning. In other words, a typical Wednesday morning for me. Hey, gotta celebrate Tuesday ending _somehow_.

            I didn't even look up to see if Pepper was standing there—I just stretched out my arm, as much as my muscles were able, and trusted that a mug of coffee would be placed in my hand. And it was. Pepper knew not only what I wanted but also when I wanted it, and she often knew when I wanted something before I knew it myself.

            "Feeling better, sir?" she asked solicitously after I had lapped up a few mouthfuls of coffee and sent the caffeine shooting towards my heart.

            "Mmmfff," I answered. Then I cleared my throat and tried again. "Cancel everything before noon today, Pepper," I ordered, resting my head on the counter. "It _is_ still before noon, isn't it?"

            "Yes, sir. I've already cleared your schedule." See what I meant? Guess _that_ request wasn't too hard to predict, though.

            For a few minutes there was quiet, except for the sound of Pepper eating something, but that happened so often it was basically background noise for me. I saved up my strength and my thoughts and finally asked, "Did you already take out the trash today?"

            I guess I hadn't explained that yet. See, the way things worked, I would bring home a one-time guest for the night, and then in the morning I would go down to the workshop or the gym or even the office. Then it fell to my assistant, whoever that was, to get the guest's clothes dry-cleaned and returned, and to escort the guest out of the house and into a cab. Pepper coined the phrase 'taking out the trash' to describe this part of her job—I really didn't think she thought of it as derogatory, just as a 'code.' Pepper liked codes, metaphors, idioms, that kind of thing—I figured she had enough trouble with understanding literal phrases that she was fascinated by people's attempts to describe things figuratively, thus obscuring their true meaning even further. Anyway, one of the my guests had not gone gracefully and had made some bitter comment, meant to sting, about Pepper having to 'take out the trash' for me, and after that it just stuck. On the upside, I could ask Pepper if the house was empty without worrying about eavesdroppers; on the downside, everyone at work ended up thinking I was obsessed with refuse removal.

            One other thing I should add is that sometimes, my guest _was_ eager to leave without a scene, or even without waking me. Nothing to do with _disappointment_ , I assure you, but some people just reacted to things differently—maybe she wanted to get home before the sun came up, or she didn't realize _I_ was happy to slip away first so as to avoid that awkward morning-after encounter. Sober I was a light sleeper, but if I had passed out it wouldn't have been difficult for someone to leave the bedroom without me knowing. But Pepper was always around and alert to assisting whoever out the door.

            But anyway—"Did you already take out the trash today?"

            "No, sir." She gave me a slightly odd look, which looked even odder from my sideways position.

            "She's still here?" I asked, surprised. "She's not upstairs." One-time overnight guests were definitely _not_ allowed to wander the house freely.

            She gave me another look and put her hand on my forehead. It was cool and soothing against my pounding head. "You didn't bring anyone home last night, sir."

            "That's weird," I told her, because it was. "I thought I remembered—" But it was like a fragment of a fragment, a flash of movement in my mind, a feeling that fled as my headache diminished, and I couldn't make sense of it. "Never mind," I decided. "Last thing I _really_ remember is George saying, 'Come back behind the bar and pick out what you want.' " Pepper's hand slid to the back of my neck, where it felt equally good. "I like George. Let's go to more of his parties."

            "Yes, sir. But perhaps it would be better if you _remembered_ more of them," Pepper chided.

            I snorted. But of course she was right. Not that that would really change anything. Except maybe the details. "Okay, no more Wild Turkey," I conceded hollowly. I preferred Scotch anyway.

            This scene of domestic bliss in the Stark household was not the point of the story, of course. The story _really_ began when I started digging in Pepper's closet a few days later.

            My house was rather large and I didn't use most of it (hence how Pepper was able to sneak by as a tenant for two years without me noticing)—there were several bedrooms and other random places suitable for storing my wardrobe, which had an impressive breadth and depth. Pepper was in charge of my clothes (naturally) and rotated them so the closet in my bedroom contained the most appropriate items for the season. But somehow, and I never really understood how this worked, some of my clothes would migrate down to Pepper's closet, and some of hers would end up in mine. Not, like, underwear or something; I'm not saying anything sinister or salacious was going on. It was more likely that Pepper just didn't _get_ the concept of separate closets for individuals. Maybe she grew up on a hippie commune?

            So one of my favorite shirts was missing from my closet, and Pepper was out running an errand so I couldn't just yell down the stairs and ask her. I guess I could've called her cell phone; but I liked to show a _little_ independence now and then. Knowing she wouldn't mind I went down to her closet to look.

            Pepper's bedroom was a strange place. The bed was always perfectly made, like it'd never been slept in. She had a _small_ bookcase full of books, with maybe _one_ sitting out that she was currently reading, and her laptop with a _few_ files from work beside it. It really looked more like the freshly-cleaned hotel room of a guest on a long business trip than the sole area of personal space carved from someone else's house. Except of course for the bits of shiny glass, metal, and ceramic she had decorating every surface. If the Big One ever hit San Francisco and buried us all, archaeologists of the next millennium would think Pepper's bedroom had been a major center of international trade.

            I opened the closet and started pushing the collections of clothes aside, searching for my favorite shirt. I found several other pieces of my clothing but ignored them, focused on my goal. Into the very back of the closet I went, or rather the side, where the clothes were behind the wall and always in shadow. I didn't find my shirt. But I _did_ find the dress.

            It was high-necked but sleeveless, relatively demure except for being hot rod red, with a loose skirt of about cocktail length. Just the sort of thing Pepper might have worn to a friendly party, and in fact _did_ wear to George's a few nights back. And had looked d—n fine in. Why had it been relegated to the back of the closet, I wondered briefly, starting to chalk it up to whatever insane system Pepper used to sort her clothing. But then a memory, or a sensation, flashed through my mind and I pulled the dress out for a closer look.

            The top was ripped.

            Like someone had grabbed the collar and yanked it down, snapping the strap. It was held together now by a safety pin which I was sure had not been needed at the beginning of the party.

            I felt the material; it was rough and cool, and sturdy. It would have taken a fair amount of strength to tear it.

            The fabric felt familiar. And so did the desire to rip it.

            Images began to tumble through my brain as I stood there frozen, holding the dress. I was in the car with a woman—not the Flavor of the Night, but Pepper. I really wanted to touch her, to kiss her. Why did she keep holding me off? Maybe she was just playing. Maybe she didn't think I was serious. Usually I wasn't. Tonight I was.

            Then we were on the floor of the car. I didn't know how we got there, but it was really funny. I couldn't hear what Pepper was saying because I was laughing too hard. We were all tangled up, bouncing around with the motion of the car, fighting to see who would be on top and if we were going to stay there or get up. Pepper had the disadvantage of wearing a dress, extra fabric I could use to trap her in place.

            She was leaning against the door of the car, still holding my wrists. I was stronger than she was. I _had_ to be. In a second she would realize that. And then I would win. Somehow I got one hand free and I pulled at her dress. It tore like paper in my grip, because I was _strong_. Stronger than her, even if I couldn't seem to get my other hand out of hers. Yet.

            But there wasn't anything after 'yet,' just a sensation of coldness, of blackness swallowing me whole, and then I was back in Pepper's bedroom holding the dress and feeling very, very sick to my stomach.

            Oh.

            My.

            G-d.

            I had tried to—I had gotten drunk and tried to—I had never, ever, in my entire life—at least as far as I could remember—but there were a number of nights I couldn't remember—but no one had ever said—but how could they, when I was—I mean, they _could_ , but who would believe—even _I_ wouldn't believe—but with Pepper—I had tried to—

            I dropped the dress on the floor and ran.

            I ran for the hall bathroom first and puked up everything I'd eaten that day. Then I ran for the liquor cabinet because that was what I always did when I wanted to forget something. Like self-control or basic human decency. I took two gulps from the glass then hurled it across the room at the wall, still half-full. The shatter wasn't big enough for me. The bottle I'd poured from followed it, but not before I'd chugged a few more drinks from it—it was a hard habit to break, drinking instead of thinking. Or breaking things instead of thinking. Or driving fast or jumping from an airplane or having sex instead of—but then we were right back to thinking and there wasn't an airplane handy.

            The liquor cabinet was all glass, very modern, very full. Very heavy. But I was strong, after all. The crash it made when it hit the coffee table was spectacular. But the silence afterwards was deafening.

            And then there was nothing to do but think.

            Pepper was beautiful. Pepper was smart. Pepper was funny. Pepper was honest. Pepper took care of me. Pepper was the best thing that had ever happened to me in a lifetime of experiences other people would envy. Pepper was—

            Not apparently angry with me. She hadn't left. She hadn't filed charges. She hadn't attacked me. She hadn't been cold to me. She hadn't even said a word. And why was that?

            Maybe she didn't understand. Someone once suggested Pepper was mildly autistic; maybe that was true, or maybe there was some similar reason she didn't think I had done anything… bad. Or at least not _unusually_ bad. Unforgivably bad. Which meant I had taken advantage of that issue, to do something unforgivably bad without consequence.

            Maybe she didn't mind. But who the h—l wouldn't _mind_? It wasn't like I'd stepped on her foot. I had tried to—really and earnestly, with my mind set on the outcome and my strategy in place, tried to—A person couldn't _not_ mind that. A person couldn't bear to be in the same house with someone who had tried that. _I_ didn't want to be in the same house with the me from three nights ago, let alone the same body.

            The more I replayed the memory, the more I wanted to rip some part of me out and fling it away, watch it shatter against the wall. Not that any part of me was delicate or sensitive enough to shatter—if anything, it would pierce the wall like a bullet or a missile. But I couldn't take any part out, not any that would change the overall nature of my design. The flaw permeated the system.

            Once I had gotten over the initial shock, I couldn't even say I was surprised.

            I was going to make Pepper understand. Then I was going to make her go away, far away, where she would be safe. Then I was going down to the _other_ liquor cabinet in the workshop.

            I heard a car pull into the driveway, doors opening and closing, the car leaving again. Then the front door opened and Pepper came in, came home. Immediately she knew something was wrong—perhaps the shards of glass skittered across the floor was a clue?—and she put down what she'd been carrying and rushed into the living room to find me.

            "Mr. Stark! What happened? Are you alright?" She knelt on the floor in front of me, her eyes drawn to the blood on my arms. Apparently I'd been hit by glass or something. Hadn't really noticed, to be honest.

            Someone else might have been panicking, yelling, getting upset, especially when I didn't answer right away, but not Pepper. Pepper was more or less calm in most situations. In a situation like this one—you know, coming home to find the place trashed and your boss bleeding on the couch silently—she was simply more alert than usual, watching me with a gaze that seemed to pierce my brain, or soul if you believed in such things.

            But she didn't need to use the shamer's eyes or any other mental tricks on me. I wasn't trying to hide anything. What was the point?

            "I saw the dress," I blurted, without having planned to speak yet. "I remember what happened that night, Pepper. I didn't before, I honestly didn't. But I do now." I met her eyes.

            For a moment we just stared. I knew—I _knew_ —she was reading the memories from behind my eyes, like watching a movie. I could see it reflected in hers. Then she blinked, and she decided to act like she _hadn't_ seen it. I could see that, too.

            She reached towards me and I knocked her hand away, gently. She reached again and I blocked again. Her touch was cool and comforting; I didn't want to be cool and comforted, I wanted to let the cinder of my heart finish smoldering. "Don't."

            She took a breath and I knew she was going to fight. In her way. "Sir, I don't know what you _think_ you remember"—that was a lie—"but nothing bad happened." Another lie. Pepper was not accustomed to lying to me, though she was doing an admirable job here.

            "Then how do you know what night I'm talking about?" I asked coldly.

            "I assumed you meant three nights ago, when you got drunk at George's party," she told me innocently. "You said you couldn't remember anything the next day."

            Good recovery. Looking into her eyes now I could almost believe she was genuinely confused about my current behavior. "Pepper, just… don't," I pleaded softly. Don't pretend you don't understand. Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. I had just gotten to the point where I accepted my actions, my… capabilities, I didn't need her trying to make me feel better. Pepper, trying to make _me_ feel better, after what I'd done.

            A determined expression came over her face. "We left George's party," she started to explain. "You had your head on my lap in the car. Mr. Hogan had to brake hard to avoid another car, and we fell to the floor." She was conveniently leaving out several things and I looked away, readying myself to protest. She pressed on. "You were very uncoordinated and we didn't make it back up to the seat. We were leaning against the door and Mr. Hogan opened it, and we fell out into the driveway. I caught my dress on something—something on the door—and it ripped. You had passed out by then, sir, and Mr. Hogan helped me to get you upstairs."

            I leaned back against the couch with a sigh. She just—"Why are you doing this, Pepper?" I asked her. "Pepper, I tried to rape you." There, I had said it. The little ugly word was flat in the air between us. "I don't care if I was drunk, I don't care if I was so drunk I didn't remember it the next day. I can't—I shouldn't do that." Understatement. Of. The year.

            She looked mildly affronted. "Sir, you didn't—"

            I cut her off. "Pepper, I was serious." I forced myself to look at her, to let her see what I was really made of, black and charred and cold like a burned-out fire. "This wasn't a lewd comment and a pat on the a-s, which shouldn't happen either, by the way, but I was serious. The only thing that saved you was me passing out. That _cannot_ happen again, Pepper. Do you understand? You need—you need to leave."

            She frowned. If she started to cry I was going to get up and leave, lock myself in the workshop and override her override, because a woman shouldn't cry when the man who tried to rape her wanted her to leave for her own safety. It just wasn't right. It meant this whole twisted, obsessive, tempted-but-not-tasting situation had gone on for far too long and it needed to end.

            But she didn't cry, she just frowned. She scooted closer to me, a lamb in the lion's den, and she took my hands in hers. I tried to pull away but she wouldn't let go and I didn't want to injure her. "Mr. Stark, you would _never_ hurt me," she stated firmly. "Drunk or sober. You wouldn't. I don't know why you think you would. We just fell. We fell and I tore my dress and that's all."

            G-d, I wanted to believe her so much. I wanted to believe it had just been some alcohol-induced hallucination/dream/distortion. I wanted to shudder one last time at the very idea that I—in some dark, alternate universe, but not this one—would behave this way, then give up on booze for a week, then go back to it whole-heartedly while Pepper continued circling me, never too far but never quite close enough. In other words—I wanted things to go back to the way they were before.

            But what I _wanted_ didn't change reality. This time anyway.

            "Pepper, you can't—" I didn't know what I was going to say—I never finished the sentence, because Pepper's cool, soothing hand darted up to my burning forehead, tender, concerned, wanting only to make me feel better. I didn't _want_ to feel better, I wanted to feel terrible, or to feel nothing at all except an icy, empty ache, because that was what I deserved.

            At least, I _thought_ that was what I deserved. Clearly _Pepper_ didn't think I deserved that. And while Pepper's judgment could certainly not be trusted on every occasion—matters of cuisine came to mind—she _was_ the sober witness to the event, and the alleged victim, while I was merely the loose-limbed drunk who took three days to dredge up even hazy, blurry memories. If they were even memories at all, and not fragments of a dream or even bits of a movie I'd seen long ago. Like stars, the more I tried to look straight at them the more they flickered and faded.

            I don't want you to think I was deliberately changing my mind. It was more like—I was becoming uncertain. Maybe I had been so shocked by what I _thought_ I saw in my mind, I hadn't stopped to consider whether or not it was accurate. H—l, there was no 'maybe' about it; all the broken glass and stained carpet in the room were strong testament to the emotional nature of my response.

            Pepper wasn't stupid, after all. She was more than capable of standing up for herself when she felt she'd been insulted or when she thought I had crossed the line. If she said nothing happened, why wouldn't I believe that?

            She easily read the conflict in my eyes, then saw which side was winning and smiled a little. "Don’t worry, sir, we'll get this mess cleaned up," she assured me, not speaking solely of the living room I had trashed.

            By this point I actually felt slightly ridiculous for my earlier outburst and relentless self-loathing. Why hadn't I just waited for Pepper to come home and _asked_ her, instead of _assuming_ I was some kind of sociopath? J---s. Who did _that_?

            Well, no use chastising myself for chastising myself. The tension started to drain from my body, replaced by cool, comforting relief, and I leaned forward to embrace Pepper. "I'm sorry," I told her, with every drop of sincerity I possessed, which granted wasn't much.

            "It's alright, sir," she told me. "You were just upset."

            I felt the need to sniff suddenly as my eyes watered. "Are you wearing something I'm allergic to?" I asked, still hugging her. I sniffled more.

            "Probably, sir," she admitted, rubbing my back.

            "It must be something really weird, because I didn't think I was allergic to anything," I continued, wiping my eyes with the heel of my hand.

            "Why don't we go upstairs to your bathroom, sir," Pepper suggested, "and we'll see about those cuts on your arms."

            "Oh, right," I remembered, pulling back a bit. "I think—I got blood on your clothes, Pepper."

            She stood up smoothly and coaxed me off the couch. "That's alright, sir. I'm sure the dry cleaner can get it out. Come on." I took her hand and followed her away from the mess.

 

            But how could it be one of the two worst things he'd ever done, you ask, when it didn't actually happen? I never said it _didn't_ happen. I said I wasn't sure. In the light of day, in Pepper's presence, I felt almost certain it was just a twisted figment of my overactive imagination. At night, if I was alone, if I had time to think, it sometimes came back to me, sharper, more real, maybe _too_ real, maybe dramatized out of reality by too many replays. But then I was less certain. In Afghanistan it came back to me frequently, complete with additions that even _I_ knew couldn't possibly have happened—clear dialogue, visible injuries, tabloid photos.

            To me the point is not, _did_ I do it. The point is, _could_ I do it. To which I must still say yes.

            As for the red dress—Pepper never wore it again.

 

            So that was one. One I wished had never happened, that did no good for anyone. Not like I stopped drinking, after all. About all that happened, on the outside, anyway, was that I bought a new liquor cabinet for the living room and fresh booze to stock it with.

            Now for the second one. Maybe this one was worse, because I did it deliberately, with full understanding of my actions. Also, it not only affected Pepper but was nearly a deal-breaker with Rhodey, my oldest friend.

            It started with Rhodey's wife, Rae. I wasn't trying to cast her as the villainess. But that was how it started. She had met Pepper and liked her, probably felt a little sorry for her, being trapped under the thumb of an egomaniac ogre like me, when she had obviously grown up in some kind of sheltered situation, like Mars. So Rae decided to become Pepper's friend. This led to difficulties almost immediately.

            I wandered out of my office one afternoon, idly glancing around the reception area. I think it was within a month of Easter because I distinctly remembered a quilted kitten sporting bunny ears and a wooden peg tree dangling tiny plastic eggs. What I did _not_ find, however, was the person I was looking for.

            "Where's Pepper?"

            No one knew. "She went to lunch with some friends," Lois reminded me.

            "Pepper doesn't have _friends_ ," I corrected her, although I was probably talking to one. "They're Rhodey's wife's friends." Lois looked as if she disagreed but didn't want to say anything, which was fine with me. It wasn't open for debate.

            I looked at my watch impatiently, watching the seconds tick down. 12:29:57… 12:29:58… 12:29:59… 12:30:00… 12:30:01… "Oh my G-d. She's late! Pepper's _never_ late! Somebody call her!" I demanded.

            Lois reached for her phone but it rang almost under her hand. We both knew who it would be and she handed me the receiver. "Pepper! You're late! Where are you?"

            " _I'm very sorry, sir_ ," she told me. " _I'm in the elevator right now_."

            "Well the elevator's not good enough, Pepper," I snapped. "I have a schedule. Actually _you_ have my schedule. It has to run with clockwork precision, and right now you are screwing it up!"

            " _Sir, there's nothing_ on _your schedule until three_ ," Pepper reminded me patiently.

            "No meetings, no conference calls, no inspections," I agreed, still peevish. "But I do have _other_ work that I do, Pepper. As CEO of the entire f-----g company!"

            Susan, the temp, raised her eyebrows at this, but she had better just get used to it. Mary was out with some kind of ghastly surgery I had so far avoided hearing about and Susan was filling in for her, possibly for months.

            " _Did your band of mages lose your World of Warcraft mission again?_ " Pepper queried.

            "Yes," I admitted petulantly. "I kept forgetting some of the magic runes. I need your help!" This was what I had been doing most of the morning. "So if you don't have your a-s in my sight by the time I count to—" Pepper appeared before me, disconnecting her cell phone. I frowned. "I can't see your a-s." She raised an eyebrow, showing her independence, and I sighed in exasperation and hung up Lois's phone. "Get in my office so I can beat you." Susan quietly documented these instances of my abusive behavior for later presentation to HR and got a transfer back to Accounting. HR got a chuckle and more items to add to their "Top 25 Tony Stark Quotes of the Year," which went out in their holiday newsletter.

            "Pepper, these so-called friends of yours are a bad influence," I advised once we were behind closed doors (and people said I was indiscreet). "I mean, you were ninety seconds late getting back from lunch. And you're _never_ late."

            "The fact that you were talking to me during most of those ninety seconds doesn't count?" she asked coolly.

            "No," I replied with my best quizzical-Pepper impression. "Why would it?"

            She sighed and sat down on the couch next to me. She was frowning a little so I put my arm around her for support. I was _there_ for Pepper, you know? Beatings aside. "I just wasn't sure what to do, sir," she confessed.

            "At lunch? I thought you had eating down pretty well."

            "We were done with lunch," she clarified. "We were in a purely social phase. I said I had to go, to be back here on time"—I nodded to reinforce this primary duty—"and they _discouraged_ me. It seemed as though their feelings would be hurt if I left."

            I was still waiting for the dilemma. "That's it? Oh. Well that's a problem with an easy answer, Pepper," I assured her.

            "Really, sir?"

            "Of course!" It was really pretty obvious. "Don't worry about anyone's feelings but mine!"

            Pepper gave this sage advice some thought. "That _is_ one solution, sir," she agreed. "But, aren't I supposed to be friends with Rae?"

            By now she had her legs up over my lap—not really sitting _on_ my lap, just close enough so that I could have my hand on her legs and she could have her hand on the back of my neck, so we were both happy. But then I drew back a bit in surprise and her hand fell to my shoulder.

            " _Rae?_ " I repeated indignantly. " _Rae?_ Pepper, how long have you worked for me— _lived_ with me—and you won't even call me Tony when we're alone! But you'll call _her_ Rae?"

            Pepper could no doubt see what a sore subject this was for me. "Well, Mrs. Rhodes _asked_ me to call her Rae. She insisted."

            I stared at her, moderately hurt. "Like I haven't gotten down on my knees and _begged_ you to call me Tony!" Literally. "I would _love_ it if you called me Tony."

            Somehow I knew she wouldn't budge. "I just don't think I'd be comfortable with that, Mr. Stark," she decided, shaking her head.

            I narrowed my eyes at her. "Well fine, Pepper," I concluded coolly. "But if you won't call _me_ by my first name, you can't call _anyone_ by their first name. Understand?"

            She frowned at me. But really if you thought about it, she didn't have to change her behavior that much. She _already_ didn't call anyone by their first names, unless that was all she knew. Even the secretaries in the outer office whom she'd known for years she called Mrs. or Ms. Whatever. This sudden 'Rae' thing was an aberration, really.

            We held eye contact for a moment until she sighed and backed down like I knew she would. "Suppose I called her Rae when you weren't around?" she needled, but it was a futile stab at rebellion. "You wouldn't know."

            "But _you_ would," I reminded her. Now technically speaking, of course, I had no right to dictate what Pepper did in her free time. I mean, what she called people on her week vacation was none of my business. The rest of the time—twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-one weeks a year—was _my_ time. At least that was the way I saw it.

            "Fine," Pepper conceded. Her touch of resentment seemed alleviated by my pleased grin. "Mrs. Rhodes said you were very controlling, so I'm sure she'll understand."

            "Me? Controlling?" I feigned hurt. "I don't know why you would think that, Pepper. I'm your slave! I only do what you want."

            "Oh really," she smirked.

            I scooted closer to her. "You didn't really want to call her Rae anyway, did you?"

            "It _was_ a little weird for me," she admitted.

            "See? Now you have the perfect excuse!" I pointed out. "I don't mind taking the blame."

            "That's very noble of you, sir."

            " _And_ , when they ask you why you can't do it even when I'm not there," I added, starting to get rather excited about the idea, "you can tell them that I'm having you _watched_ in public. Ooh, how about that I've forced you to wear a wire like in cop shows? Of course," I went on thoughtfully, "we should probably indeed attach one somewhere on your person, for verisimilitude…"

            "I think you're getting a bit fanciful now, sir," Pepper suggested tolerantly, grabbing the hand that was starting to wander.

            "Oh, trust me, Pepper, my fancies regarding you have only just begun—" At some point during this line the door to my office opened and Susan the temp stepped in, just to stare at us canoodling on the couch it seemed to me. "Would you use the d—n intercom?!" I snapped at her without altering my posture. Susan was always bursting in on me, I felt. Was I going to have to start locking my office door or what?

            "Thank you, Ms. Lawson, I'll deal with that right away," Pepper told the woman politely and she scurried away.

            "Deal with what?" I asked in confusion.

            "She put a fax on your desk."

            "G-d, really? What for? What should I do with it?"

            "Give it to me," Pepper assured me. "I'll take care of it."

            "Oh, good. Anyway"—back to the important matter at hand—"how was lunch? Did you go to that new Chinese place I saw?"

            "No, we went to a tea room—"

            "Pepper, you've been very disappointing to me this afternoon," I huffed. " _I'm_ not going to eat at some frilly antique-filled _tea room_ with a cat twining around my feet amid the discarded bean sprouts. I can learn nothing of value from you here."

            "I'm sorry, sir," she told me, with little sincerity. "The lobster bisque was very good and so was the spinach quiche."

            "And you didn't even order anything I _would_ have eaten if I were kidnapped and forced to eat at a tea room!" I exclaimed, greatly put out by the chaos Pepper had introduced so far this afternoon. "You know I don't eat things that have the words _bisque_ or _quiche_ in them. Unless of course they're the most expensive thing on the menu."

            "I know, sir. But Joe recommended them. He said they were his favorite."

            Imagine the screeching sound a car made when it was forced to go from sixty to zero in about five seconds. "Hold on! There was a _man_ at lunch!? That you call by his _first name_!?"

            This was serious. Before I was just kidding around, being an a-s to show Pepper how much I missed her. I didn't really think Pepper _needed_ friends, but I was secretly pleased Rae liked her enough to invite her out to lunch once a week with her other girlfriends, emphasis on the _girl_. I had gotten the scoop on all of them from Rhodey and they seemed like steady, dull, married folk who would complain about their lives a lot, as opposed to leading Pepper towards any temptations like bar-hopping, traveling, or the promotion to managerial status she was qualified for. In other words, safe.

            No one had said _anything_ about introducing a _man_ to the mix.

            Pepper hastened to reassure me. "I don't think he _has_ a last name," she explained, stroking my hand that had started to clench up. "They just introduced him as Joe. He's a chef at an Italian restaurant downtown. Mrs. Rhodes and the others know him."

            "Is he married? How old is he? Was he checking you out at any point?" I made a mental note to put Joe the Chef down for a background check by HR.

            "His marital status wasn't mentioned," Pepper replied calmly, rubbing the back of my neck. It made me feel a little better. "He's about Mrs. Rhodes's age. And I didn't notice him checking me out."

            "Well, you never do," I reminded her, thinking rapidly (which was very rapidly indeed). "If he's Rae's age he's too old for you anyway…"

            "Isn't Mrs. Rhodes younger than _you_?" Pepper asked innocently.

            "Not if you adjust for our emotional maturity levels," I corrected off-hand. "Anyway, she would have to know I would object to a _man_ joining your little matrons who munch crew… Hey, I know." Inspiration struck me. "Maybe he's gay. That would be alright."

            "Would it really?" She seemed doubtful.

            "Well, if he was one-hundred-percent gay, not bisexual or anything," I amended. "Anyway, if he was willing to eat at a _tea room_ with four dull women, plus one hot chick who is you, Pepper, the possibility can at least be considered. And he'd eaten there enough to have favorite dishes…" The case was looking stronger by the minute. Not that I was into stereotyping people, but if he _wasn't_ gay there was a chance I might have to dismember him, which would be a mess, so I was pulling for the 'gay' card. I turned back to Pepper. "I'll ask Rhodey the first chance I get."

            "Well, that would be a great relief to me, sir," Pepper told me.

            "I know." With that matter decided, I moved on to the important issue of what to do with the rest of the workday. "So you're gonna help me with the mission, right? To steal the goblin gold from the Orc-master of Dunnlebrook? How will I remember all the runes without you?"

            "You _are_ a genius," Pepper reminded me, cruelly.

            "Ouch. Pepper, there are two thousand runes! Ten times that if you include the obscure user-mods. Come on, you're my secret weapon!" Because Pepper, of course, flipped through the Rune-O-Pedia once and memorized every code in it. Sure, I _could_ use her talents on complex international deals involving legal restrictions in multiple countries, BUT an online video game world was way more entertaining, not to mention more relevant to my daily life.

            "Well, alright, sir," she conceded, as I knew she would, as she always did. "But I should take care of that fax first. It may be something important."

            "Well, if you must, Pepper."

            The next day I had lunch with Rhodey and wasted no time beginning my investigation. "Do you know a chef named Joe?"

            "Well hello to you, too," Rhodey answered sarcastically, sitting down. "Yeah, he works at this Italian place Rae and I like. How did you hear about him?"

            "Your wife invited him to lunch yesterday," I informed him darkly. "With _Pepper_." I hated to be a tattle-tale, but obviously Rhodey didn't know what treachery Rae had been up to.

            "Ah," Rhodey remarked with a smirk. "I expect you smelled the testosterone from another man on her the moment she walked in the door."

            I rolled my eyes at him. "No, of course not. Hmm, do you think I should be able to do that? No, that would be unnecessarily stressful, what if it was just from some nobody like a waiter or a cab driver? Still, I suppose some sort of pheromone sensor _would_ be—"

            "Tony," Rhodey interrupted with a laugh, "you don't have to worry about Joe. He's a nice guy."

            I frowned at my friend and his lack of understanding. "I don't care if he's _nice_ ," I explained. "I just care if he's _straight_."

            Now Rhodey rolled his eyes at _me_. "You know, this level of jealousy is really unhealthy, man. Especially over a woman who is not, in fact, your girlfriend."

            I considered his words. "So you're saying he _is_ straight?" I concluded, ominously.

            He sighed. "I don't know, I don't usually demand people explain their sexual orientation to me before becoming their friend."

            "Well you should," I advised. "It would have saved me a lot of trouble."

            "I'll remember that next time." Somehow I didn't think he would.

            Pepper came in with our lunches and started to lay them out on my desk. "Hi, Pepper," Rhodey greeted. "How are you today?"

            "Just fine, thank you, Major Rhodes," she answered politely. "And you?"

            Small talk was so boring. "Rhodey says he doesn't know if that guy's gay or not," I reported to her.

            "How unfortunate," she replied, tucking a napkin into the collar of my shirt. "The ribs are very saucy today, sir. If you get any on your pants let me know so I can sponge it off before your meeting."

            See how Pepper just gave me these little gifts all the time? "Well, Pepper, you can—"

            "Stop," Rhodey pleaded, holding up a hand. "I don't wanna hear it."

            "You're no fun," I accused him. "Pepper, pretend I just made a sexual innuendo."

            "Very well, sir," she agreed. "Pretend I didn't get it and stared at you blankly."

            Rhodey laughed and we both looked at him, perfectly deadpan. Of course Pepper didn't have to work at it much. After a moment Rhodey awkwardly stopped laughing. And _then_ I smirked. And then he threw a french fry at me, which unfortunately did _not_ land on anything Pepper would have to sponge later. Her comment _had_ pretty much guaranteed I would be drenched in barbecue sauce by the end of the meal, though.

            "Will there be anything else, sir?" Pepper asked.

            "Where's dessert?" I questioned, looking around the food on the desk.

            "You didn't order any," she pointed out.

            "Oh. Right. Well come back here when we're done eating, I've got a can of whipped cream in my desk. And use the d—n intercom!" Rhodey looked up from where he'd hid his face in his hands in embarrassment at my representation of the Y chromosome to see that said representation had been witnessed by a dour middle-aged woman standing in the doorway of my office holding a piece of paper.

            Pepper plucked the paper from her hand. "Thank you, Ms. Lawson, I'll take care of that. Enjoy your lunch, sir, Major." They both left.

            "Who was _that_?" Rhodey inquired in confusion.

            "My temp," I replied with distaste. "She's in for Mary who's having a brain transplant or something for the next three months."

            Rhodey shook his head. "How do they even _find_ temps to work for you?"

            "Well HR has to get content for its holiday newsletter _somehow_ ," I reminded him. "But back to this _Joe_."

            Rhodey groaned. "Look, he's more Rae's friend, okay? He's a really good cook, he likes kids, he's funny. That's about all I know."

            "Your wife has a male friend and you don't even know if he's straight or gay?" I asked curiously. "Would you let her have lunch with him, alone?"

            "Of course," Rhodey answered without hesitating. "There's no _let_ about it. If she wants to have lunch with someone, alone, it's okay with me." I raised my eyebrows. "It's called _trust_ , Tony. You should try it, it's very trendy right now."

            "I trust Pepper," I assured him. "I just don't trust _other_ people."

            You know, my mom didn't have many friends who were men, unless she was also friends with their wives and they socialized in couples. She didn't really have a job outside the home once the company got going, but she painted a lot and ran my dad's social calendar, and she was very outgoing and adventurous, loved to travel, that kind of thing. No oppressed '50's housewife whose social interactions were tightly controlled by her husband, was what I was trying to convey.

            But she would never have had a meal with a man on her own, unless he was a relative or it had to do with business. She'd never call one on the phone just to chat. She wouldn't even let them in the _house_ if my dad wasn't home, just greet them cheerfully at the door and tell them this wasn't a good time. Obadiah was one of the few men who was allowed inside if my dad was away on a trip, but that was because he was my dad's oldest friend and business partner and he'd been asked specifically to look in on us. And even then I was always in the room with them.

            My dad was the same way—he wouldn't even take his female assistant out to lunch for her birthday without bringing along someone else. And I didn't think it was because they didn't trust each other or had some weird issue from the past. That was just what they felt comfortable with, as far as I could tell.

            Now obviously I wasn't following their examples all that closely—I was frequently alone with women and we were _always_ doing exactly what people feared we might be. But then again I was single, so things were different. And clearly, when it came to Pepper I took things to the extreme. I could bring a different woman home every night, but no way could I let Pepper have lunch with another man, in public, with four other people at the table. I didn't really know why I felt so strongly about this—certainly I had never put such restrictions on anyone else in my life. But I wasn't just being an obnoxious a-s about it. I wasn't even just being a demanding b-----d, which was a grade worse than obnoxious a-s. I was really and truly serious about it. All joking aside. All instant, emotional, instinctive reactions aside. This was _based_ on instinct, of course, but it was also considered, deliberate, with full understanding.

            I wasn't condemning this Joe yet. Even my mom had some gay artist friends—this _was_ San Francisco, after all—and as far as I could recall they were somewhere in between women and straight men on the "alone time" scale. So I would have to see. But I would be keeping an eye on him.

            The next week the ladies went shopping and ate at the mall food court over their lunch hour, which meant Pepper spent the _next_ hour of the day modeling for me what she'd bought. "G‑d, Pepper, these clothes are all so _cheap_ ," I judged harshly.

            "I thought you would appreciate that, sir," she remarked coolly.

            "Not 'cheap' as in 'delightfully tawdry,' " I corrected. " 'Cheap' as in 'middle class civil servant.' Where'd you guys go, Wal-Mart?"

            "JC Penney's," she confessed.

            "I knew it! These clothes have the stench of designer knock-offs about them," I continued relentless. "Let me guess—were they _on sale_?"

            "I think so," she confirmed.

            I tsked. "Pepper, we don't buy things on _sale_ ," I reminded her in a world-weary way. "We don't even shop at places that _have_ sales. What were you thinking?"

            "Well, the people I was with _are_ middle-class, mostly," she pointed out. She was changing back into her Armani suit behind the filing cabinets that separated my regular desk from the design area of my office. "Upper middle-class at most. Teachers, store managers, chefs—"

            "Joe was back?" I asked, instantly alert. "He went _dress shopping_ with you ladies?"

            "He sat outside the changing rooms," she replied. "Sometimes he held people's purses and coats."

            "Did he make tactful suggestions about what styles and colors would look good on people?" I probed.

            "Yes," she told me. "In fact, sometimes he was so tactful I didn't understand what he was saying."

            "Well, you're used to shopping with me."

            "Yes, sir."

            "Maybe he _is_ gay," I mused aloud. "There was a guy on my floor at MIT who liked to go shopping with girls and advise them on what to buy, but he was also a total horndog. For women, I mean. So it's not definitive." I gave it some thought. "But even _he_ wouldn't have eaten at a tea room."

            "Maybe I could just ask him if he's gay," Pepper suggested.

            I rolled my eyes. "Pepper, you obviously don't have a strong grasp of the subtle nuances involved in social interactions," I judged. "But maybe you could let an issue of _Playgirl_ fall out of your purse and see what his reaction is. And what the h—l are you still doing back there?" Seriously, she had been getting dressed for ten minutes.

            "I'm wearing the suit with the zipper at the weird angle," she complained. "I just can't quite—"

            "Come out here, I'll do it," I offered. "I've told you, just go down to the showroom and have it fixed. I already explained it to Giorgio."

            Pepper walked over to me, holding her skirt at the proper height, and presented the zipper at the weird angle that was impossible for a human to zip on themselves. And not very easy to zip on someone else, either.

            "G-d, what do I need, a degree or something?" I muttered, struggling with the fastener.

            "I expect you're used to _un_ zipping, sir," Pepper replied tartly.

            "D—n right I'm used to unzipping," I shot back. "Now hold still!" A throat cleared behind me and both Pepper and I turned to see Susan standing there. "Pepper," I chided, "didn't I tell you to lock the door while I was harassing you?"

            "You can put that package on my desk, Ms. Lawson," Pepper told the woman without a trace of embarrassment. "I'll take care of it." She nodded and left.

            I looked up at Pepper. "That had a stunning inevitability about it, don't you think?"

            She patted my head, pushing some hair back into its proper place. "I'll talk to her again about using the intercom," she promised. "She keeps saying her boss in Accounting never used them."

            "Does she realize she's not in Accounting anymore?" I asked seriously, my hands on Pepper's waist after finally completing my task. "Does she realize I'm a different person, not just her old boss after radical cosmetic surgery and a crash course at charm school?"

            Pepper smiled, which was like a gut-busting guffaw from someone else. "I'll talk to her again." She looked back at the vilified clothing hanging on the handles of the filing cabinets. "What should I do with those clothes? Since you seem not to approve of them."

            "Well, you could save them for a mud volleyball tournament," I suggested. She indicated this was not useful advice. "Did you put them on my credit card?" She nodded. Almost all of Pepper's expenses were put on my cards—how else could she afford Armani? "Donate them to a charity and I'll take the tax write-off," I decided. "Be sure and get a receipt."

            "Yes, sir." I let her go and she gathered up the substandard outfits.

            "By the way," I added, as she was about to leave my office, "I found out Joe's last name. It's West."

            "So I should call him Mr. West?"

            "I think that would be a good idea, Pepper."

            I know I'm taking a while to come to the point here—the story probably didn't seem that bad yet. But I wanted to set it up properly. I could've started out by saying, "Rae tried to set Pepper up with a guy behind my back and I crushed it," but I didn't think that would really have the same emotional impact.

            Still, I could skip ahead a little. The time was flying by quickly for me, anyway, because I started working feverishly on a new design project, an amphibious vehicle. No more mornings spent playing video games and afternoons debriefing Pepper. Or even asking her questions about what she'd been doing. Ha. I got the general impression that "Mr. West" continued to be a fixture at the ladies' lunch, but as long as the others were around, and they always were, I didn't spare much of my brain power fixating on it. Oh, don't get me wrong, I didn't let it slip by the wayside in favor of my new project; it was just that when I had extra time to think—to brood, to plot, to conjecture—that was when bad things sometimes happened, and for a while I just didn't _have_ extra time. So I made sure the basics were okay and moved on. Much as a person might who only had the _normal_ amount of brain power, which was taxed to the breaking point by just the everyday chores of life.

            I was down in the workshop adjusting the water outlet valve I had designed for the amphibious vehicle—a revolutionary new concept, if I do say so myself—when Pepper came in, frowning. I responded to Pepper's frowns. Really, I wanted to alleviate them. But I was also just a _little_ bit busy right then, so if she was going to bother me it had better not be over some triviality.

            She sat down on a stool by the workbench and waited patiently until I reached a good stopping point, which was only about ten minutes. "Yes?" I prompted, with mild irritation. By 'stopping point' I meant I was still _thinking_ about what to do next, though I wasn't _actually_ doing it yet.

            "Mr. West asked me to have dinner with him tomorrow night." One thing about Pepper, she didn't beat around the bush.

            I looked up from the plans I'd been studying. "Alone?"

            "That was my understanding," Pepper confirmed.

            "Like a _date_?"

            "I assume so."

            I snorted and went back to the blueprints, unconcerned. "Guess he's not gay, then."

            "Apparently not."

            I made a couple of marks on the blueprints, adjusting the dimensions I'd calculated earlier. Pepper still sat there. After a moment I looked back up. "Is there more to the story? Did he do something entertaining when you turned him down? Like cry?" She blinked at me and understanding dawned. "Oh my G-d. You _didn't_ turn him down!" I dropped the marking pencil, giving this matter my full attention. " _Why_ didn't you turn him down? Are you scared of him? Do you want _me_ to do it?" It was the first idea that came to mind.

            "No, sir."

            I sat down on my own stool and stared at her across the workbench, assessing her expression (such as it was). "You want to go," I finally realized, and she dropped her gaze to her lap, properly ashamed of herself. I sighed, looking around at what had been consuming me for the last few weeks. There were bits of metal and tools scattered over every available surface, including the floor, interspersed with the occasional leftover food wrapper or plate Pepper hadn't yet cleared away—I'd been taking most of my meals, if you could even call them that, down here amid my work. I'd spent most of my days and nights in this room, in fact, more often than not covered in grease and too busy to shower, emerging only when Pepper nagged and threatened me into attending a meeting. Suddenly the room, spacious as it was, seemed very small and stuffy.

            "I understand," I told her, and she seemed surprised. Well, I could be pretty insightful sometimes. "It's my own fault. You know how I get when I'm working, Pepper. I don't see anything but what's on the bench. Look, I'll, um—" This was difficult to offer, but Pepper was important to me. "I'll take a night off. Not tonight, because I'm about to start on this new part here, but maybe tomorrow. Or the day after would be good, actually. We'll, um, we'll do something fun. We'll get some pizzas and watch a movie." Pepper sighed and looked off to the side, biting her lip, which I took as a very bad sign. "Or if you want to go out, we'll go out," I continued hurriedly, trying to find the suggestion that would make it all okay. "We'll go out to eat someplace nice. Um, wherever you can get reservations this late. Any place in town. Out of town? As long as we can get there and back in one night. When I'm done with this we can go away for longer, if you want—"

            "Mr. Stark."

            And then I saw it. Really saw it. Not what I merely _wanted_ to see, not what I _expected_ to see, but what was really there. And my heart—or whatever was in there—went cold. Like a switch flipping, or a visor coming down over my eyes, changing my view of the world in one, swift motion.

            "No." 

            "Mr. St—"

            "I said no."

            She gave me a look. Well, she could give me looks all she wanted. Wouldn't change a thing. "Why not?"

            "Because you don't want to." My immediate response.

            "That's not true," she tried to scoff, but I knew differently. I had one shot, and one shot only, at changing her mind.

            "You don't like leaving me." I came around from behind the workbench and she turned on the stool to follow me. "I know you better than you think I do, Pepper," I told her in a low voice. "You only relax when you're with me. Alone."

            Her expression confirmed not only that I was right, but also that she wished I wasn't. "That doesn't mean I don't like talking to other people."

            I should have felt angry. But all I felt was the cold. The cold, and the need to keep her with me. No matter what I had to say or do. "You would leave me? To talk to _him_?"

            She practically rolled her eyes. "For _one_ evening—"

            "He doesn't want _one_ evening, Pepper," I cut in, stepping closer to her. "He wants one a _week_. Two a week. Three. He wants you to come home to him every night."

            Now she _did_ roll her eyes, but there was a bit of uncertainty to the gesture. "No, he doesn't."

            I pressed my advantage, standing close enough to her that she had to tilt her head back to look at me. "He will. He's sat through chaperoned lunches for weeks just to talk to you. He went dress shopping. He ate at a _tea room_. He's got it bad for you, Pepper. You give him one evening, he'll want a lifetime."

            "You've never even met him," she replied slowly, deliberately. She put her hand on my chest—over my heart, actually, not that it mattered since I didn't think it was still beating—and pushed me back a few inches.

            I caught her hand and held it in place against my greasy tank top. "I know how he feels."

            "No, you don't," she said firmly. "He's not like you. He's not like Major Rhodes or Mr. Stane or anyone else I usually talk to. He's nice and he's funny—"

            "Quite a compliment coming from a woman who never laughs."

            She ignored that comment. "If you would just meet him—"

            "I don't want to meet him," I assured her. "I don't want _you_ to meet him."

            She gave me a long look, trying to see inside my mind. I didn't think she would like what she found but I didn't try to hide anything. "Would it really hurt so much to let me have dinner with him?" she asked softly.

            "I don't know, Pepper. You tell me," I shot back in a hard voice. "How much would it hurt?" I was about to do something very cruel. But also very fair. I had questions I wanted answered, too. "Why do you stay here, Pepper?" She pulled her hand away and looked off to the side; but to me this was the heart of the matter. "Why do you put up with me?" I gave her a moment but she didn't answer or even look at me. "You don't want to talk about that?" She never did. "You want to know why I won't let you go. _I_ want to know why you don't tell me to f—k off and walk out that door."

            Then she looked at me, drawing a breath sharply, her expression one of shock and pain, as if I'd slapped her. I remembered when she'd sobbed in my arms because someone tried to hire her away from me—for whatever reason I hadn't even come close to understanding, the idea of leaving me terrified her. Maybe even more than it terrified me. "Yeah, that's what it feels like," I told her. "So you tell me, does it hurt?"

            Tears glittered in her eyes and she looked down, anywhere but at me. I should've felt like a complete and utter b-----d for making her cry; but I didn't feel anything. Everything was very clear and sharp, like a chess board when I could see exactly how the game was going to play out. No, not chess; something simpler.

            "Do you want to have sex with him?" I asked, inching towards her again.

            "No."

            "Kiss him? Hug him? Hold hands?" I pulled her hands into mine and held them tightly.

            "No."

            "Then why do you want to go on a date with him?" To me it seemed ridiculously unnecessary.

            "Just to talk," Pepper tried to explain to me, not looking up. "To get to know him."

            "Talk to him at lunch. With other people around."

            "You don't like that either."

            "I can live with it," I told her quietly, practically on top of her again. "But not this."

            She was close. She was very close. But she wasn't _quite_ ready to give in yet. "I talk to a lot of people every day—"

            "For _me_ ," I interrupted. "You talk to them for _me_. But I can't let you choose someone _over_ me. _Instead of_ me. Not unless you leave completely." I leaned down, whispering right into her ear. "I want all of you, Pepper. Every minute. Every breath. As much as you want me to want it." I heard her sniff, felt her shoulders jerk beneath me, and I pulled back, dropping her hands. Immediately they went to her face to wipe away the tears that had overflowed, leaving smudges of grease behind. I gave her a moment, assessing her clinically, like I was watching a robot I'd created. Then I made my offer. "Forbid _me_ to do something, if you want." Controlling? No doubt. But she controlled _me_ just as much.

            She sniffled again, thinking it over. When she finally looked up at me her gaze was like a diamond, hard and glittering. "What if I wanted you to stop sleeping with all those women?"

            Pepper, jealous? Unlikely. But she knew where to strike at me. "Are you willing to take their place?" I shot back. I knew that answer was no. "But I'll do it, say the word." And I would have.

            "What if I wanted you to stop drinking?" she tried.

            "Tell me and I will."

            "You ought to," she sighed, unwilling to give the command. "It's not good for you."

            "Then tell me to," I insisted. "I'll obey." I felt more like a machine than a person anyway at that moment. Giving up alcohol would have been nothing to me.

            "If you think it's a good idea, why don't you just stop on your own?" she questioned.

            Ah, I could see she didn't quite understand yet. "I _don't_ think it's a good idea," I countered. "I think it's a _terrible_ idea. But true obedience can only happen when you think you know better, and you choose to do as you're told anyway. Anything short of that is just agreement." Pepper let out a sigh, the tension starting to drain from her body. "Call him and tell him you don't want to have dinner with him," I encouraged. She nodded and I moved in for the kill. "Call him and tell him you don't want to see him again. At all."

            She looked up in surprise. "But—"

            "Do it," I ordered, moving back behind the bench as though her choice was of no consequence to me. "Or leave."

            Pepper stared at me for a long moment while I went back to the blueprints. Then she got up and walked out of the workshop.

            She was gone for a long time, maybe twenty minutes, long enough for me to get back into my project. Not that I felt any kind of passion about working on it, creating it; but there was a kind of cold satisfaction in connecting the circuits logically, methodically. I knew once I got beyond this part I would have no idea what to do with the machine, because the creative, problem-solving part of my brain had shut down—temporarily, I hoped. As much as I _could_ hope, which wasn't much. I wondered how long it would take me to thaw out and reasoned that once I did, I might very well wish I hadn't.

            Good thing she hadn't forced me to give up drinking, because I was going to need it.

            Pepper finally came back downstairs wearing a clean suit and with her face scrubbed. I ignored the plate she set on the edge of the workbench, concentrating on connecting a wire on the circuit board. "Did you call him?"

            "Yes."

            I at least had the sense not to gloat. "Good. Was there anything else, Pepper?"

            "You should eat this," she replied, indicating the sandwich she'd made. "You've been skipping a lot of meals lately."

            I waved it off. "Later."

            "Mr. Stark." Her forceful tone grabbed my attention and I finally looked up from my work. She was standing very straight and tall, with a look on her face that said she expected my full compliance. "From now on, when I tell you to _eat_ , you will _eat_. And you will eat what I bring you, not whatever garbage you have lying around."

            I almost smiled but thought better of it. The bargain had been struck, then. "Do I have to get your permission for all meals?" It was important to get the ground rules laid out.

            "No," she decided. "You may eat whenever you feel like it. But I reserve the right to substitute your choice for a healthier one."

            Fair enough. "Just let me wash my hands."

            The story isn't over with, though. I still hadn't p----d off my oldest friend yet.

            For three days things were pretty quiet around the house. Pepper was a little cool towards me and made sure I was forced to eat a lot of salads. I _hated_ salad. I hadn't felt the need to drown any guilt in Scotch yet, but then again I hadn't let myself think about much besides water outlet valves. As promised I had taken this evening off from the work to watch a movie with Pepper and was just finished dressing after my shower when the doorbell rang.

            "I'll get it!" I announced, heading through the living room. "Did you order food?"

            "No," Pepper called back. "We're having salad!" I gritted my teeth. Well, she would crack soon. Pepper wasn't able to survive on rabbit food any more than I was.

            I switched the TV to the security camera outside the door—unexpected guests were almost never good. Waiting in front of the house was a thirtyish man carrying a bouquet of flowers—tweed blazer, henley shirt, nice jeans. I could've bet money that when I opened the door I'd get a whiff of oregano.

            I unlocked the door and pulled it open enough to frame me, certainly not wide enough to be construed as an invitation to enter. I wasn't trying to be welcoming. He looked just a little bit surprised to see me—not like he hadn't heard Pepper lived with me, but like he hadn't quite believed it.

            For a moment the two of us just looked at each other, each sizing the other up. I didn't think he would throw a punch easily—but if he did it would probably hurt. "You must be Mr. West," I finally said.

            "You must be Mr. Stark," he replied in a grimmer tone. Of course; I was the winner here.

            "Pepper!" I called over my shoulder, keeping an eye on him. "Someone here to see you."

            She approached with a curious expression and I opened the door a little bit wider so she could see him. Obviously his appearance was a surprise.

            "Mr. West," she commented, taking my place at the door. I leaned against the wall beside her, thoroughly butting in.

            "Hi, Pepper," he greeted, sending me a sidelong glance. "I, um—I'm sorry to just drop by like this, but—oh, here." He handed her the flowers.

            She held them as if she didn't know what to do with them, which was probably the case. Not a big flower fan—if she couldn't eat it, or it wasn't shiny, what was Pepper going to do with it? "Thank you," she told him politely anyway.

            Then she shot me a look. I had been perfectly prepared to stay right where I was, but after a moment I gave in and moved off—to the wall behind her, where I could loom more effectively since only _he_ could see me. I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to look tolerant of lesser beings. This seemed to unnerve him, which was obviously my goal.

            He tried to speak quietly so I wouldn't hear him, but I got the gist of the conversation. Sorry if I upset you by asking for a date, we can take things slower (what exactly is slower than _not_ dating?), no need to break off the friendship, really like you, so funny and sweet… Gag me. Seriously. Pepper might have been funny but she _definitely_ wasn't sweet. I couldn't hear what she said in reply, but it was very short, typically Pepper. She shook her head. She handed him back the flowers. She shut the door. The last thing Joe saw was my unwavering gaze telling him in terms no man could mistake that it was now time for him to abandon my territory.

            Pepper stayed facing the door for a long moment. "You could always follow him," I pointed out, matter-of-factly. Just so she knew.

            Slowly she turned around, the steely look in her eye enough to jangle my confident posture. "You've been eating too much pizza this week," she judged. "I'll go get the salads."

            "I'll put in the movie," I told her. "Let's watch _Labyrinth_."

            The next day I had to go into work for a meeting or something that Pepper insisted was very important. As I stepped into the reception area of my office I started sniffing, detecting an unfamiliar scent, and then I realized—there was a _man_ in my office. An older man in an ill-fitting suit and tie sat behind Mary's desk, poking at the computer.

            " _Who_ are _you_?" I demanded, marching over to him. He stood hurriedly, smoothing down the wisps of hair that remained on his scalp.

            "That's _Harold_ ," Lois told me, sounding very pleased.

            "He's in for Mary," Sheryl added, practically cooing.

            "What happened to Susan?" Not that I liked Susan at all.

            "She got a transfer," reported Lois.

            "Harold will be here for the next few months," Sheryl continued. "Tootsie Roll, Harold?"

            "HR sent me a _man_?" I was still finding this difficult to accept. Though the Merry Widows seemed happy about it. Pepper took my briefcase and continued past me to her desk, unsympathetic.

            "Harold Conroy, Mr. Stark," he was finally able to say, shaking my hand. "Pleasure to meet you." He smelled like peppermint and tobacco, which I found oddly soothing. Grandfatherly. If he lasted I fully expected some kind of railroad or airplane theme to join the kitten and angel curios decorating the room.

            "What department are you from?" I asked, trying to keep my suspicions raised. I didn't want to be lulled into a false sense of security by the folksy aura he projected.

            "Programming, Mr. Stark."

            "So I guess using email won't be a problem," I surmised. That was a common obstacle when you had a staff as… mature as mine.

            He chuckled a little. "No, sir."

            "Um, you don't have to call me sir, because that's just weird," I decided, indicating he could be seated. "Also you don't have to wear a tie if you don't want to. Things aren't too formal around here." I nodded towards Sheryl—who waved unnecessarily—and her button-down denim top covered in quilt patches embroidered with the names of her grandchildren. And her dogs.

            "Oh, alright," he agreed pleasantly.

            I decided to bite the bullet. "Look, Harold," I began confidentially, leaning on the partition in front of his desk, "I'm sure you're a nice guy and I expect you'll work out fine." He waited expectantly. "But the thing is—last time I had a man in here I had to fire him for making inappropriate remarks." Harold nodded sagely. "These are nice ladies and I don't want them upset."

            "Of course not," he assured me, unoffended. "I understand completely."

            "Also, that's my PA, Pepper," I told him, pointing her out. "I catch you staring at any part of her body for more than ten seconds, I will break your neck."

            Hmm, not sure where _that_ came from, exactly—not part of my standard new employee greeting—but Harold seemed to take it in good spirit. He had obviously been well-prepared by HR. "Alright." Pepper ignored me.

            "Okay," I agreed. "You seem cool, Harold, I think we'll get along. I'm sure Lois and Sheryl will show you what you do around here. Try not to start a catfight, I like my office to be quiet. Ladies, make sure Pepper knows who he is, okay?" She might be confused when I left the room and a _man_ popped up at Mary's desk. With that I headed into my inner office.

            There were just too many changes going on right now, I decided. Too much stress. Maybe I needed a vacation. And that was _before_ the phone rang.

            I picked it up without concern, figuring that very few people had my private office phone number so the worst it could be was more work. Thus I was totally unprepared for a woman screaming at me from the receiver.

            " _Tony Stark, you abusive b-----d!_ "

            " _Rae?!_ " Of all the women who might have called and shouted that at me, my oldest friend's wife was _not_ who I expected.

            " _I always knew you were an a-----e, I just didn't know how big of one!_ " she continued.

            I was still a little stunned. "Aren't you—at school? With small children listening?"

            " _I thought you actually cared about Pepper, but now I see that you only care about yourself!_ "

            She said the 'P' word, which meant my temper started to rise. "Wait a—"

            " _You are too d—n afraid of being stuck alone in a house with no one but your b-----d self to let Pepper have her own life! How_ dare _you, Tony, how could you_ —"

            "Listen," I snapped, barely refraining from adding on a colorful epithet that would _really_ not help the situation, "I am not going to discuss this with you." And I hung up. That was maturity right there. No screaming, no swearing, no telling her that if she'd minded her own f‑‑‑‑‑g business in the first place, none of this would ever have happened. There was really only one possible reason for her to start inviting Joe to those lunches, after all—everyone but Pepper was married.

            Which didn't mean Pepper was single.

            I picked the phone up off the desk and hurled it at the wall, where it made a satisfying crash and broke into several pieces. So much for maturity. At least I wouldn't have to block Rae's number.

            The office door opened and Pepper looked in, with Harold behind one shoulder and Lois and Sheryl watching from a safe distance. "Is everything alright, sir?"

            "Gonna need a new phone," I remarked. "Seems to be something wrong with this one."

            "I see, sir," she replied evenly. "Was there something wrong with it before or after you threw it at the wall?"

            I had to admit I didn't have an answer for that.

            That night the doorbell rang again. I was worried old Joe might be back, possibly accompanied by Rae and a group of militant feminists wielding torches and pitchforks, but the security camera showed only my oldest friend, the best one who wasn't Pepper. I opened the door with far more pleasure than I had the night before.

            And I was promptly punched in the face.

            Being completely unprepared for this assault I staggered backwards awkwardly and eventually tripped over something, hitting the floor. Rhodey stepped inside around me and strode to the living room with stiff determination.

            "Pepper, pack a bag!" he called authoritatively. He was using his manly military type voice. "You can stay with us tonight. I'm taking you away from this a-----e."

            By this point I had clambered back up to my feet and followed him into the living room, though I still needed the wall for extra support while my rattled brain settled down. I wasn't immediately infuriated by the punch or anything like that; sometimes that was just how guys like me and Rhodey communicated.

            "That's the second time today I've been called an a-----e by a member of your family," I wanted him to know. "Are the kids gonna show up next or what?"

            "Well you deserve it," Rhodey told me, in a very p----d-off voice. "Tony, I know you can be a self-centered little s—t, but this is crazy. You need help." He turned back to Pepper, who was watching us both with a frown from the doorway to the kitchen. "Come on, Pepper."

            "I don't want to leave," she told him flatly.

            "Look, I heard about what he did," Rhodey explained earnestly. "You don't have to put up with that. You wanna be friends with Joe, there's nothing wrong with that. No matter what _he_ says."

            Okay, _now_ I was getting a little irritated. I mean, the guy punched me, walked into my house, and tried to take Pepper away from me, _and_ he wasn't even discussing this with me. "Don't talk about me like I'm not here—"

            "Back off, Tony!" Rhodey commanded, halting my progress forward. "I'm serious. You had a little crush on her, you got jealous, it was funny. But forbidding her to even be friends with another man is crossing the line." Rhodey was a good guy. Maybe too good. I knew he had only Pepper's best interests at heart. Or rather, what he (and his wife) _thought_ were Pepper's best interests. But sometimes he had a rather narrow view of right and wrong—that there was only _one_ right way for a relationship to work, for example. "Pepper, it's okay, come on."

            "But I don't want to leave," Pepper repeated, looking mildly exasperated now.

            I approached again, trying not to sound smug. "See, she doesn't _want_ to leave—"

            "That's because you're a manipulative b-----d who's got her thinking you'll try to kill yourself if she doesn't do everything you want!" he snapped, clearly frustrated. Wow, tell us what you _really_ think, Rhodey. "That's just _sick_ , Tony, and it's _wrong_."

            You know, a guy could only take so much abuse, even from his oldest friend. "You don't understand _anything_ that's going on here!" I shot back, getting right into his face.

            "Oh no? Well explain it to me, then!"

            "I would _never_ stop Pepper from leaving," I promised in a low voice. "Take her with you if you want. Go with him, Pepper, at least for the night." I could survive one night, if it meant Rhodey saw I didn't have some kind of psychological hold over her—or at least, that it wasn't one-sided.

            "Both of you need to stop telling me what to do," Pepper said coolly, and we turned to look at her in some surprise. "Mr. Stark and I have an agreement," she informed Rhodey.

            He stepped around me to face her and his tone became more gentle. G-d, but he was really trying. "Pepper, any agreement that includes you not having _friends_ —"

            "She can have friends!" I cut in, appalled by his complete misinterpretation of the situation. "Just not male ones."

            He spun on me, his eyes hard. "What are you so afraid of, Tony?" he demanded. "Are you afraid some other guy is gonna jump her before you get the chance?"

            Well, nobody talked about Pepper that way, not even my oldest friend. So I punched _him_. This quickly degenerated into an outright brawl, complete with knocked-over furniture and broken glass. This wasn't the first time Rhodey and I had gotten into a fistfight, and we weren't really trying to hurt each other. Which we could have if we wanted to, believe me—Rhodey had extensive military training and I had no qualms about fighting dirty. But like I said, we were just trying to convey our feelings to each other. He thought I was being a sick, self b-----d and I thought he was being a self-righteous a-s who should mind his own business. We didn't have subtle messages, so we didn't need a subtle way of explaining them.

            After a minute or two I took a second to glance around for Pepper, hoping she wasn't planning to hit Rhodey over the head with a golf club or something—that would definitely send the _wrong_ message in our instinctive Neanderthal language. But I didn't see her at all.

            "Hang on, hang on!" I said, holding up a hand before Rhodey could hit me again. He paused, thrown by the unusual move. "Where's Pepper?"

            Rhodey gave me a suspicious glance, as if expecting a trick, then looked for himself. "I don't know," he finally admitted. We were both panting by this point. Gotta work out more if I wanted to keep up in fistfights.

            We called a truce to go look for Pepper. I think we were about done anyway. I certainly understood _his_ message, at least. Also, I think we both realized there was no way to predict how Pepper was going to react to this primeval display of dominance—she might have run off to call the police, for instance, which would just be embarrassing for _both_ of us.

            We started in the kitchen, in case she had wandered off for food. "Pepper! Where are you? Yo, Pep!"

            "Man, where would she have gone?"

            "I don't know. Out to get the dry cleaning?"

            "And just left us beating the c—p out of each other?"

            "Well, G-d, I don't know how her mind works. Maybe she thought it would be a good time for a bubble bath."

            As it turned out I had the right idea, in general anyway. We found Pepper curled up in a chair in her bedroom, reading a romance novel. It was difficult to think what to say at that point.

            After a moment she looked up from the book, coldly. "Are you two done fighting?"

            Rhodey and I glanced at each other. "Um, yeah, I guess," we answered, more or less in unison.

            "Then go into the kitchen," she ordered, starting to rise. "You're getting blood on my carpet."

            "What? Oh, s—t." There was blood dripping down my arm onto the floor.

            "S—t," Rhodey agreed as we both looked for the source of the blood. "What the h—l did you do?"

            "I don't know," I shrugged. "Maybe when we broke that lamp, or table, or whatever we broke—"

            "That looks deep," he winced, locating the cut. "You might need stitches."

            "G-------t," I sighed. "That's a fantastic way to spend an evening, waiting in the ER—"

            "Well, you gave _me_ stitches last time, man," he reminded me.

            "Well, that's true…" Fair _was_ fair.

            In fear of Pepper we had both retreated back into the kitchen by this point. She appeared a moment later with an armload of medical supplies that she dumped on the counter. "Sit down," she told us, and we obeyed.

            For several minutes the only sounds were those of Pepper distributing ice packs, disinfecting wounds, and bandaging cuts. And trust me, there was _no_ sympathy in her eyes when the rubbing alcohol stung like h—l.

            "Do I need stitches?" I asked her as she attended the cut on my arm.

            "No," was her brusque reply, right before the searing pain of the disinfectant cut off my smug look at Rhodey.

            Once the majority of the injuries were under control she felt like speaking. "Major Rhodes," she began seriously, "you are a very good person."

            I begged to differ. "I—"

            "Be quiet," she told me firmly, then turned back to Rhodey. "But Mr. Stark is not abusing me, and I have no intention of leaving him."

            I wanted to rub it in. "Ha—"

            "Be quiet," she ordered again. "I am fully capable of making my own decisions."

            Rhodey seemed resigned, if still confused. "But Pepper, I thought you really liked Joe. At least, that's what I heard…"

            "Why didn't you tell _him_ to be quiet?" I spat out indignantly.

            "Because I wanted to hear what he had to say," she told me simply. "I've heard more than enough from _you_." She faced Rhodey again. "I _did_ like Mr. West. But he upset Mr. Stark, and I like him better."

            "Ha!" I began triumphantly to Rhodey, but Pepper shut me up with a look. Then she took my hand and brushed hers against my bruised cheek, and I felt warmer than I had for days, despite the coolness of her skin. Pepper had made her decision. We had _both_ made our decisions. And no one was going to talk us out of it, no matter how well-intentioned they were.

            "Well I changed my mind," Rhodey announced, standing. "You're _both_ sick." I started to glare at him, ready to challenge the insult, but Pepper rubbed the back of my neck soothingly. "I'm leaving," he decided, heading for the door with two of his icepacks.

            "You comin' over for the game Friday?" I called after him. Things weren't entirely settled between us, I could tell, but time would calm them down. Or bury them.

            "If my wife hasn't castrated me for coming home empty-handed—probably," he responded dryly.

            " _There's_ an idea," Pepper told me sarcastically, brushing my hair back to look at a bump on my forehead.

            "Wouldn't help," I assured her. My motivations weren't hormonal in nature (entirely). "Lobotomy, maybe."

 

            So there you go. The other worst thing I had ever done, regarding Pepper. But how could it be so bad, you ask, when Pepper agreed to it? Well, I think the answer to that one is obvious. She did agree. She did make a choice. But any decent person would say I shouldn't have forced her to choose at all. I knew she wouldn't leave me. Probably. But I had to make sure we both realized that. I had to make sure I didn't have to worry about it again for a single moment—no dates, no flirting, no suspicions. I had to know that I was in control. And now she knew that she was in control, too.

            I did everything I did deliberately, with full understanding of my actions and the need for them, a calculated strategy to retain the thing I needed most. In the process I took away something Pepper might have really enjoyed, a whole swath of opportunities she might have enjoyed. Or I might have saved her from years of awkward situations and spared several men the heartbreak of their lives.

            Sometimes—again, late at night when I hadn't drunk enough to be asleep and found myself thinking instead—I began to feel badly about what I'd done. I thought of Pepper crying, of me _making_ her cry, on purpose, to get my point across. But then I always imagined Pepper going on that date with Joe, and another and another, and her tight, secretive heart miraculously bursting open to embrace him, and the way she would look at me when she moved out to be with him instead, even if she still saw me all day. And when I imagined that, my heart grew cold, and I knew I would do it all over again.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> The next one will be funny.


End file.
